A Wicked Deed (17 page)

‘Best place for it,’ he said. ‘Other than in Alcote, that is.’

‘There is rather a lot of this,’ said Deynman, eyeing the piles of food with trepidation. ‘Will we finish it all, do you think?’

‘Of course we will,’ said Michael, his cheeks bulging with fresh bread. ‘It is a mere mouthful.’

‘We should save some for William,’ said Bartholomew, watching Michael scrape the greens from his portion of hare. Under the cress, the dish swam with grease, and Bartholomew felt queasy as Michael plunged his bread into it and sucked on the sodden crust.

‘William claims not to like elaborate food,’ said Alcote. ‘He will not want any.’

‘He will,’ said Bartholomew, knowing that what William said, and what William did, were not always the same. ‘But this is all very rich. We will be ill if we eat too much of it.’

‘A contradiction in terms, Matt,’ said Michael, spearing a duck’s leg with Bartholomew’s knife. ‘“Food” and “too much” are words that do not belong together, like “fun” and “physician” or “friar” and “intelligent conversation”.’

‘Or “monk” and “moderation”,’ added Bartholomew. ‘Do not eat so fast, Brother. This is not the Pentecost Fair, you know. There is plenty here for all of us and there is no need to gobble.’

’I never gobble,’ said Michael loftily. ‘I merely enjoy the pleasures of this life while I can. And so should we all – after all, as Unwin has just shown, who knows how long we may have to do so?’

*

It was not long before Michael had reduced the fine meal to a mess of gnawed bones and empty platters. Alcote, always a fussy eater, consumed very little, and Bartholomew and the students had little appetite after seeing Unwin dead in the church. While Michael tried to lift the spirits of his subdued companions by telling some ribald tale about a Cambridge merchant’s wife, Bartholomew stared at the fire and tried to recall whether he had seen any villager acting oddly after the feast, hoping he might remember a furtive look or a nervous manner that would provide some clue as to who killed the student friar.

After Eltisley’s wife had cleared away the greasy dishes, a man from the lively group at one of the other tables came to join them.

‘I am Warin de Stoate,’ he said, bowing low. ‘Grundisburgh’s physician. I wanted to tell you that I was delighted to see you put that charlatan Eltisley in his place – he has been plaguing the village with his worthless cures and concoctions for years.’

Bartholomew rose to introduce himself, pleased to meet another medical man. Stoate was in his late twenties with thin hair, pale brown eyes and a face ravaged by ancient pockmarks, partially concealed by a large moustache. He wore hose and a matching cotte of a deep amber, and a fine white shirt. Bartholomew recalled him as the man who had been tossing – and dropping – the small child on the village green earlier that day. Like Bartholomew, Stoate carried a bag containing the tools of his trade, although his was smaller than Bartholomew’s and of a much better quality.

‘We were all shocked to hear about the death of your colleague,’ said Stoate, gesturing to his friends at the next table. ‘Do you have any idea as to why someone should do such a thing?’

Stoate shook his head. ‘But I saw someone leave the church not long before the alarm was raised by him.’ He pointed at Horsey. ‘I did not think much about it at the time, but now it seems as though it might be important.’

‘It might,’ said Michael, sitting upright. ‘Who was it?’

‘I did not see his face,’ said Stoate, to Michael’s disappointment. ‘I was standing near the ford talking to Mistress Freeman, and I just glimpsed someone leave the building.’

‘Why did you notice him at all?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘I imagine people were in and out of the church all day.’

‘They were, but he caught my eye because he was wearing a long cloak,’ said Stoate. ‘It was warm in the sun today, and I remember thinking how foolish he was to be wearing such a thick garment when he would overheat. We medical men notice that sort of thing.’

‘Do you?’ Michael demanded of Bartholomew.

The physician shrugged and then nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Do you recall anything else?’ he asked Stoate.

‘Not really. He did not look familiar, but there are so many people in this village that I might not immediately recognise someone – particularly swathed in a thick garment with the hood up.’

‘Was this person acting furtively?’ asked Michael. ‘As though he had just done something he should not have done?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Stoate with certainty. ‘He kept looking about him, and then he disappeared off into the trees on the far side of the churchyard. At the time I just assumed it was a lad setting up a prank to play on his fellows – water in a bucket over the door, grease smeared on the doorstep, that kind of thing. But now I realise a practical joke was a long way from that man’s mind.’

‘And it was definitely a man?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Could it have been a woman?’

‘A woman? Why should a woman want to kill Unwin?’ asked Alcote, looking up from where he was trying to read some of Tuddenham’s accounts in the firelight.

‘Why should a man want to kill him?’ countered Bartholomew.

Stoate shook his head, trying to remember. ‘It might have been a woman, I suppose. There was no way of assessing how big he was when there was no one else nearby. I am sorry, I know I have not been of much help. Had I known that this person was leaving the scene of such a terrible crime, I would have been a lot more observant.’

‘Thank you for telling us,’ said Michael. ‘But we are forgetting our manners. Please, sit with us and take some wine. It is apparently the best that insane taverner has to offer.’

Stoate sat at the table next to Bartholomew, and began to enquire about the latest medical theories that were being expounded at Cambridge. Unfortunately, since the plague had killed so many physicians, and the few who were left could earn ten times the amount by practising their trade on the wealthy than they could teaching medical theory to students in a University, Cambridge was not overly endowed with them. Oxford fared little better, although Paris, Salerno and Montpellier were thriving. Stoate said he had studied medicine first in Paris, and later at the University of Bologna.

Sensing that the discussion would soon become unpleasantly spangled with references to grotesque diseases, Alcote slipped away. As he left, Stoate’s companions began to laugh, and nudged and jostled the fair-haired woman in a gently teasing way. Alcote glowered furiously, and scuttled from the room as fast as his spindly legs would carry him.

‘What are they laughing at?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused by their reaction to the fussy scholar.

‘Rosella found a pod with nine peas this morning,’ said Stoate, as if that explained all.

‘So?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘So, she takes the ninth pea, and places it on the lintel of the door,’ said Stoate impatiently. ‘The first man over the threshold will be her sweetheart.’

‘And Alcote was the first of us to come in,’ said Bartholomew, smiling. ‘Poor Rosella! Alcote has a morbid dislike of women in any form, but young and pretty ones in particular.’

‘Why?’ asked Stoate curiously. ‘They are among God’s finest creations.’

‘I have no idea. But if you have any regard for Rosella, you will advise her to shell a few more peas. And speaking of peas, have you tried them cooked in sugar to help those recovering from the sweating sickness?’

Deynman listened to the conversation for a while, but his concentration span was short, and he was soon kicking Horsey under the table to play dice with him. Michael closed his eyes and began to doze, pretending not to notice the illicit gaming in the darkest corner of the tavern and hoping it would keep Horsey from dwelling too much on the death of his friend.

It was not long before the plague became the topic of conversation, and Stoate told Bartholomew how he had cured people with a purge of pear juice mixed with red arsenic, lead powder and henbane. It was not a recipe with which Bartholomew was familiar, nor, after hearing the amounts of arsenic, lead and henbane Stoate used in his concoction, was it one he intended to try. If Stoate’s patients had survived both the plague and the remedy, they were possessed of stronger constitutions than the citizens of Cambridge.

But it was good to be able to discuss medicine with someone who was interested. Stoate told him of country cures for chilblains, cramp and nosebleeds, and then went on to describe purges for all occasions.

‘Is that what you do most?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Prescribe purges?’

‘That is what most people summon me for. It is my contention that it is cheaper for physicians to prevent diseases than to cure them. I recommend that everyone should be purged of evil humours once a week, and bled at least three times a year.’

‘And you find this helps to keep people in good health?’ asked Bartholomew, uncertainly.

Stoate gestured around him. ‘Ask my patients. Most are in excellent health. Are yours?’

Michael gave a soft snort that might have been laughter or might have been an innocent noise made while asleep. His eyes remained closed.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, looking back at Stoate. ‘But then, living in a town is far less healthy than life in the country. There is often not enough to eat, and the water from the river is filthy.’

‘What has the water to do with anything? Try some of my purges on these ailing patients of yours and you will notice a difference within a week. And there is nothing quite like bleeding to improve the health, of course.’

‘Is there a surgeon in Grundisburgh, then?’ asked Bartholomew, disappointed that Stoate was like all the other physicians he had met. Bleeding, to rid the body of the excessive humours that caused imbalances, was seen as the answer to everything – even the plague. In Bartholomew’s experience, phlebotomy served to weaken the patient if he were ill, and was a waste of time if he were not.

‘Our surgeon died during the pestilence,’ said Stoate. ‘Do you have a good remedy against lice? We had a spate of them last summer, and even Eltisley professed himself at a loss for a solution.’

‘Not really,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But who bleeds your patients if there is no surgeon?’

‘Master Stoate bleeds his patients himself,’ said the formidable matron who had apparently been listening to their conversation from her fireside seat. Her eyes, however, were fixed on Deynman’s dice. ‘He is a most accomplished surgeon, and charges tuppence for a vein to be opened in the foot and threepence for the hand.’

‘You practise surgery?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

Stoate looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, blood-letting is not exactly surgery, and I only do it if I feel a patient should not make the journey to Ipswich.’

‘That is excellent!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, delighted. ‘Well, not the bleeding, but to meet a physician who is prepared to use surgical means to help his patients. I have performed a number of operations including trepanation, cauterising and suturing wounds, amputations …

‘Have you?’ asked Stoate doubtfully. ‘That is strictly forbidden. The Lateran Council of 1215 says that priests are not allowed to practise cautery.’

‘I am not a priest,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘But what else do you do, besides phlebotomy? Have you tried pulling teeth? It requires more skill than most surgeons believe – if the tooth breaks in the jaw, it can cause infections and even death from poisons in the blood.’

‘I have not,’ said Stoate with a shudder. ‘I have an infallible remedy for extracting teeth without the need for physical effort on my part: powder of earthworms. Just a pinch of this in the hollow of a tooth will make it drop out within days.’

Bartholomew winced. ‘What about bone-setting? Do you do that?’

‘No,’ said Stoate. ‘As I said, I do not practise surgery if I can avoid it, and I have not bled anyone for several weeks now. But I did once remove the blue skin that forms over the eyes of the old, so that the person could see again.’

‘My patient died of a bloody flux about a week later,’ said Stoate. ‘But I learned two things: the knife must be sharp, and the patient must lie still.’

‘Well, that goes without saying,’ said Bartholomew, regarding him doubtfully. ‘But did you use witch-hazel as a salve afterwards? Or did you use groundsel as Dioscorides recommends?’

‘I used sugar water,’ came the unexpected reply. Stoate gazed at Bartholomew and suddenly slapped his hand hard on the table, waking Michael, who regarded him in alarm. ‘That is it! I knew there was something else!’

‘That is what?’ asked Michael, irritably.

Stoate looked pleased with himself. ‘Ever since I learned of your Franciscan’s murder I have been thinking about the person I saw coming out of the church. I knew there was something I should have remembered, but it had slipped to the back of my mind. Talking about surgery to the eyes has suddenly jolted my memory, and I now know exactly what it was that has been bothering me: the person in the long cloak was rubbing his face.’

‘You mean as though he had been crying?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure that this had been worth waiting for.

‘No, rubbing his eyes hard with both fists, as though there was something wrong with them,’ said Stoate. ‘So, you are probably looking for someone with an eye infection, Doctor Bartholomew. That should narrow down your list of killers!’